


if you love me i will love you

by batyatoon



Series: lavender's green, lavender's blue [3]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jewish, Collection: Purimgifts Day 3, Community: purimgifts, Crossover, Domestic Fluff, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Pesach | Passover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 00:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6262612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batyatoon/pseuds/batyatoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A time for family, togetherness, and ridiculous amounts of food.  (Or:  And then I said to myself, why not a crossover AU where everybody's Jewish?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you love me i will love you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noxelementalist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxelementalist/gifts).



There's spring in the wind, in the earth, pushing up pale green blades and brilliant wildflowers on either side of the road, bursting from twig-tips in bud and blossom and leaf. Istra leans up in her seat, straining to see, as the wagon rounds the top of the last hill; yes, there’s the familiar cloud of white-flowering apple trees, surrounding the old house where she and all her sisters grew up. And there beyond the trees is another white cloud, rising into the blue sky like a pillar to show them the way: smoke from the burning bread, there only on this one day out of the year.

Someone must have seen them coming a long way off, she thinks, because the wagon hasn’t even pulled to a stop before the kitchen door bursts open and seven or eight small shapes come hurtling out of it. She’s laughing as she clambers down into the waiting swarm of nieces and nephews, and gathers as many as she can hold in one swift hug before disengaging to retrieve the baby from his travel basket. The second-oldest niece -- _Rayna? No, that’s the oldest, the fourteen-year-old; the eleven-year-old is Joiya_ \-- Joiya goes running back into the house shouting at the top of her lungs “Ima, Ima, they're here, Aunt Istra’s here!”

A small parade ensues, each child taking one piece of luggage as big as he or she can handle and carrying it carefully into the house. Egwene appears at the door in her smudged apron, laughing, leaning far forward to give Istra and then Caspian each a careful kiss on the cheek -- “Don’t hug me, I’ve been frying onions and I’m all over grease --” and direct the children to lead the way to the guest rooms. Rayna is last in line, carrying the still-sleeping baby with solemn gravity.

The house is crammed full of relatives, sisters and brothers and cousins and friends who might as well be family, and there’s another battery of hugs to get through. Everyone’s made it this year: Marin and Bran looking older but still hale, Nynaeve and Lan and their children, Perrin and Faile and their children, Rand and his wives and _their_ children -- good lord, even Mat and Tuon, down from the city -- oh, _everyone._

And at least half of them are in the kitchen, working at the long wooden table, when Istra makes her way there after unpacking. They’ve clearly been working since morning, and there’s plenty left to do: spices to grind, piles of vegetables to peel and chop, a half-dozen chickens to cut up and dress for the skillet. Elnore, under her mother’s supervision, is carefully breaking eggs into a white mixing bowl that’s already half full of grated potatoes and onions, while Joiya and Marinna are both peeling beets and giggling at each other’s pink-stained fingers. Across from them, Perrin is cracking walnuts and almonds out of their shells and passing them to Min to crush fine, each of them occasionally stealing a piece to munch instead or to pass to the children. Bran sits nearby, mincing apples and raisins to mix with the crushed nuts; at his elbow stands a jar of sweet red wine, in which two sticks of cinnamon and a slice of ginger root and a half-dozen cloves have been steeping since yesterday. At the far end of the table Marin is showing Aviendha how to wash the bitter greens and check them for insects, while beside them Elayne frowns in concentration at the hunk of horseradish she’s slicing into thin slivers.

And there’s Caspian standing by the broad brick oven, with a wide-eyed Rilian in his arms looking around at everything in calm fascination, and talking earnestly with Egwene as she straightens up with a tray of fresh soft matzahs. Istra takes a moment just to look at them together, dwelling fondly on the color of their hair and the set of their eyes; not identical, but as one might say, rhyming.

There's enough work in here for the rest of the family too, but there isn't _room_. Which is just as well, since there's work to be done elsewhere. Out in the dining room, Mat’s busy corralling the rest of the older children into chores: polishing the silver winecups, laying out the fine china plates and the little cut-glass bowls for haroset and salt water, gathering the pillows and cushions for everyone's chairs -- tonight they'll dine in comfort and splendor, all of them free, all of them kings and queens.

“So you’re in plenty of time,” Egwene assures Istra, as she makes her way over to the sink to wash her hands. “Sunset isn’t for hours, it’s not even noon yet; you can lie down and rest, or read something, whatever you’d like --”

Istra leans to drop a kiss on her sister-in-law’s forehead, tells her fondly not to talk nonsense, settles herself firmly at the table in front of a heap of carrots and turnips, and rolls up her sleeves.

* * *

  
  
Haroset ingredients  


**Author's Note:**

> Story titles are (for no particular reason except that they seemed to fit) from an old folk song / nursery rhyme, usually called "Lavender's Blue."
> 
> I hope you enjoyed these and have a happy Purim!


End file.
